


three-six-five

by owltrocious



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Aftercare Porn, Group Sex, Implied Drug Use, M/M, Multi, OT5, Rough Sex, the dream pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-12 02:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7081366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owltrocious/pseuds/owltrocious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after is the worst. </p><p>Kavinsky jerks awake in a nauseous spasm when a foot grinds into the burn on his calf. He makes one abortive attempt to swallow the spit in his mouth then hauls himself blind and careless over a pile of bodies—he kicks one of them, shoves another; a chorus of disgruntled noises erupts—and pukes as soon as he's clear of the nest of blankets. The sound of his retching is loud and gruesome in the sleepy quiet of the dim, afternoon-hot bedroom. </p><p>[Or, the one where the pack put each other back together after a rough night.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	three-six-five

**July 5th**

The morning after is the worst.

Kavinsky jerks awake in a nauseous spasm when a foot grinds into the burn on his calf. He makes one abortive attempt to swallow the spit in his mouth then hauls himself blind and careless over a pile of bodies—he kicks one of them, shoves another; a chorus of disgruntled noises erupts—and pukes as soon as he's clear of the nest of blankets. The sound of his retching is loud and gruesome in the sleepy quiet of the dim, afternoon-hot bedroom.

"Fucking _christ_ , K, get off," Skov groans near his head.

The elbow Kavinsky's crushing into the floor under his palm must be his. He shifts his grip and Skov wriggles, nude sweat-damp skin sticking and pulling, his belly under Kavinsky's hip. Kavinsky rolls onto his back again in the center of the pile, blinking, and wipes his mouth with the heel of his hand. His knuckles are split on both hands. The blistered track of skin down his calf from a mislaid firework throbs. He's got bite marks of various shapes and sizes scattered over his torso, his thighs, even his forearms; scabbed gouges pull tight on his back.

"I'm dying," Jiang moans from the edge of the pile, pitiful.

"Who fucked me last night, exactly," Skov asks.

Kavinsky squints at him. If he looks like a wild night gone wrong, Skov looks like he should be dead in a ditch. His throat is ringed with blue-purple bruises, one of his eyes is blacked, and there are _cuts_ all over him. He's wincing when he moves, covered in dried blood and flaking patches of semen. 

Swan grunts, muffled with his face tucked into Proko's hair. Their legs are tangled with Jiang's, a clump of limbs in varying shades of golden brown and milk white. A moment later, he says, "All of us."

 "All of us," Proko agrees. It sounds meek though entirely unrepentant. "How bad is it?"

"I need help showering," Skov says. "And I fucking hope whoever took half my fucking skin off with a goddamn pocket knife _sterilized it first_."

Kavinsky sits up, finally, takes stock: the five of them had at some point ripped the sheets off of the mattress, shoved the bed against the wall, and—he remembers it in flashes, Skov taking a swing at him and the pack converging on him while he laughed, spat insults, goaded them into a fury of hands and teeth. He distinctly remembers seeing Jiang, blurry eyed and grinning, flick open his knife and messily cut Skov's shirt off of him, opening up the skin over his ribs in the process too. He hadn't put the knife away, after.

"That was me," Jiang says, as if seeing the memory behind Kavinsky's eyes.

"Fucking freak," Skov grumbles.

"Jiang—your fault, you fix it," Kavinsky delegates.

"It took all four of us, asshole," Jiang mutters, but he stands, leans against the bed for a moment—the blood on him isn't his, and otherwise, he's model-perfect as always—before making his way around the edge. He sidesteps the mess Kavinsky's made and offers Skov his hands.

With a boosting shove against his back from K and Jiang pulling him upright, he manages to find his feet, but he staggers into the other boy immediately and nearly takes them both down. The other three watch as the pair balance each other, Jiang's petite frame straining to hold him up. It's a sight, lean muscle flexing and cording, unabashed nakedness and comfort in their bodies tucked close. It's quiet again for a moment after they leave the room.

"I feel a little bad," Prokopenko admits.

"I don't remember him telling a single fuckin one of us to stop, so," Swan replies with a shrug.

Kavinsky snags his phone from the pile of clothes in the corner and checks it. No texts, no work to do, but out of curiosity he swipes through and finds a set of photos from the night before. The first two are from the Fourth party, a car on fire and a picture of his own bloody hands. The rest, ten of them, are stark filthy snaps of Skov getting absolutely _railed_ by Prokopenko and Swan—except one, a delightful point of view shot of Jiang's lips wrapped around his dick. There's blood on Jiang's face; his eyes are focused on the camera, showing off. He swipes back to look again. His favorite is the one of Prokopenko sitting on his heels with Skov's hands twisted up behind his back, keeping him kneeling over his lap with his dick half inside, and Swan standing in front of the pair crammed into Skov's mouth. There's a lot of spit and blood and Skov is limp between them. 

"I need to stop making amateur porn when we're fucked up," Kavinsky says.

"Why?" Swan asks.

 Kavinsky shows him the phone. Proko raises an eyebrow too. "It doesn't look good, you're right."

"It looks like the beginning of a snuff film," Kavinsky says.

"No officer, I swear, he said it was cool like an hour ago when he was still using his words," Swan muttered.

"Exactly," K says.

"Let him see it before you delete it," Proko suggests.

K scrubs a hand down his chest and adjusts himself a little, starting to firm up at the sight of his pack in full glory. He swipes through the pictures again, slow, for good measure. He had a half-clear memory of being the last one to use Skov, when he was wrecked and moaning and had already come twice. It had been very— _wet_.

"Bring that over here," Swan says.

Kavinsky drops the phone back on the pile and climbs on top of Swan, gets Proko's mouth on his back, Swan's hand on his cock. It's leisurely. Proko's only partially erect against his ass, a thick smooth press of soft skin more comforting than erotic. The door opens again an indeterminate amount of time later and the other pair return. Skov looks better clean, though his face is tight with discomfort and frustration. Jiang guides him over to the bare mattress and lays him down. He rolls onto his side immediately, facing the pile of boys on the floor.

"For the record, I'm closed for business for at least a few days," he says. "Don't even touch my dick, I am so serious."

"Okay, though?" Proko asks.

"I checked him out, he's good," Jiang says, and sits on the edge of the mattress.

"Chafed fucking raw," Skov clarifies.

"But in one piece," Jiang grumbles back.

"Good work," Kavinsky says. He grinds down slow and hard against Swan, back into Proko. "If you want to see yourself getting straight-up gangbanged, check out my phone."

Skov snorts and waves an imperious hand. Jiang grabs it for him, swipes the password in, and hands it over. Kavinsky watches Skov's eyebrows climb. His expression is a little shocked and a little turned on. Things that had felt right in the moment look brutal under the unforgiving eye of the camera—but Skov doesn't seem to mind. Not for the first time, Kavinsky considers Prokopenko's occasional suggestion that _other_ people have a safeword on Skov's behalf before something happens that isn't fixable.

"Somebody suck my dick, then we can get on with the day," he says.

Prokopenko laughs against the back of his neck. "Wash it first and I will."

"Fine," Kavinsky says.

 

*

 

Breakfast is a box of pizza and a tub of Jiang's favorite ice cream, eaten at four in the afternoon sitting on the scalding hoods of cars in a burnt-out trash-littered ex-fairground. Kavinsky chokes down one slice; the grease alone is enough to make his stomach cramp, and he thinks, _well fuck_. It's the first afternoon he's been sober in a week and a half. His joints ache and the bridge of his nose feels bruised from the inside. He guesses he hasn't been eating enough.

He doesn't mention it, but he sees them see him, Proko's attentive roughness and Jiang's streak of tender instinct first and then the Skov-and-Swan unit falling into place last. It's the order he collected them in and it doesn't change: each creature a marvel and a disaster all at once, ragged edges that sync up and melt together over his hands. He knows instinctively that Jiang will be feeling guilty for Skov's flinches until he heals; he expects he'll find the two of them alone together at some point in the next week, and it won't be pretty and it won't be something either of them will speak about later. Proko will tend Jiang after, get him stoned and lie around in his bed and stroke his hair. Maybe Kavinsky will help with that part, maybe he won't.  Swan will watch, and then come to him after, because Skov is hard to fucking handle after he's had a taste of tearing someone apart—he's hard to fucking handle half of the time anyway—and they'll get him back down on an even keel.

He knows it all, but he isn't going to stop it from happening, and that's enough to make him hate himself. He crawls off of the hood and lies in the scorched grass, face-down, breathing in the smell of dust. Someone's bare toes rest on his back, kneading there, and the pack is quiet.

*

"K," Proko murmurs from the floor.

"Yeah?" he answers. He's been staring at the ceiling for an hour, tired in his fucking bones but awake. He'd kicked Proko out of bed to see if being by himself would help. The other boy was curled up in a nest of blankets and pillows next to the mattress.

 "I'll blow you again, if it'll make you sleep," he says.

Kavinsky smirks to himself and drapes a hand over the edge of the bed to scrape his nails down Proko's arm. Proko kneels up, pulls him sideways on the mattress, and licks around the base of his prick. The two of them alone reminds Kavinsky of his freshman dorm at Aglionby. It's slow and sloppy, all affection and little to no desperation, just wet sounds in the quiet and the soft sweet drag of Prokopenko's lips and tongue. He comes with a sigh and a pulse in the base of his guts that almost hurts.

"Get back in bed," he says.

Proko brings a pillow with him and wraps his bigger frame around Kavinsky's. His breath is warm and his touch soothing, feathering strokes up and down the other young man's spine until both drift off—fitful rest, but rest. Across the hall, Jiang snores into a wadded up t-shirt that smells like musk and weed and someone's blood; back at the dorms, Skov and Swan put in their time, tending wounds in a miniscule bathroom, butterfly tape and antiseptic and Skov's pained hisses clinical but intimate.

Three-hundred-sixty-four days, as on the other side of town another pair of boys clean out a warehouse: it's _starting_.

 


End file.
